I love questions. I am good at asking them. In the past, I have gotten praise for my curiosity, my willingness to put myself out there, to ask the tough questions. I have been on both ends of the question- you know, the asker and the responder and it's hard to tell which is tougher. I have been asked questions and people have not liked my answers. One time someone hung up on me. My theory is always that you should not ask if you don't really want the answers. Recently, I got to ask some questions to a group of toddler parents. It was hard on them. They just wanted sleep.
Recently, I asked some questions regarding a piece I have been working on. It's been brewing for awhile. I wrote it in one fell swoop, set it aside, came back to it and re-hashed and re-arranged and re-thought. It took quite some time, but I felt good when I was done. I don't get a lot of feedback so I sent it to someone asking some questions. There was a delay in the response. I asked again. Finally, I got one. It was a response where the gloves were off. Not in a bad way, but in an honest, this-is-for-your own-good sort-of-way, and after I recovered from the intitial blow (it was soft, but a blow nonetheless), I started wondering if I really do have what it takes to be a writer. I liked the insight, the honesty, the frank dissection of my work, but it felt a little like that dreadful peeling of the cow's eyeball you might have been lucky eough to do in 4th grade. It was kind of eerie and kind of cool all at the same time. You want to go back for more, but should you?
At any rate, the whole experience has left me pondering questions and which end I prefer to be on. I could live in my happy bubble toiling away, or I could put myself out there. Bubbles certainly have less drama. But what might I be missing? Now that is the real question.